Stepping into a café in Sidi Bou Said, the interiors are pitch black after the dazzling sun that plays on the whitewashed houses in the streets. As soon as my eyes adjust to the dark, the vague shadows I saw at first resolve into men lifting dainty glasses full of an amber green liquor. It looks good, so I find myself a seat at a round table and order: �??Un the à la menthe, s�??il vous plait.�?� And I fall hopelessly in love. With the tea, that is.

Though it feels like yesterday, it was a winter many moons ago that I went to Tunisia and had the first of many mint-flavored teas. I know this apparently contradicts my blanket statement that I hate flavoured teas, but it doesn�??t really. Thing is, unlike most flavoured teas, in the North African blend the tea comes across quite strongly, though mint and a rather liberal use of sugar give it a comforting quality.

I have always wondered how North Africa developed such a passion for mint-flavored green tea. It must have undoubtedly come to them through the Ottoman empire, but Turkish tea-drinking habits centre around straight black tea. Nevertheless, I am very grateful to the mysterious Arab who first came up with the idea of mixing gunpowder tea with mint.

I like the entire mint tea ceremony as much as I like the tea itself. Tea leaves are placed in a pot and covered with boiling water. After steeping for two minutes, sugar is added, then more boiling water and fresh mint leaves. The tea is left to steep for a few more minutes, stirring it regularly. The proper way of serving it is to pour it into small glasses from far above to create a light foam. Yesterday, however, I was in a rush and thus had to dispense with the ceremony. I simply steeped a teaspoon of Le Palais des Thes�?? mint tea blend in 7oz boiling water for five minutes. It was nearly as marvellous as the real deal.

And although the weather outside was a muffled gray, and I was standing in a messy, toy-strewn kitchen, for a magic moment I travelled back in time to that small, unforgettable day in Sidi Bou Said.

I usually loathe flavored teas. The aromas are often artificial and overpowering, killing the delicate taste of tea. The one exception to this is chai. I love the way tea and spices combine to create a warming drink. For me, chai tastes of winter and days spent lazing in front of the log fire. Not that I have one�??it�??s just a daydream. But of course chai is the product of a warm climate.

Monica Bhide, my Indian cuisine guru and one of the most entertaining food writers I know, once confessed she too finds it funny that �??the favorite drink of a “hot” subcontinent is tea!�?� Her recipe for chai is pretty much that anything goes. It could just be tea and a few cardamoms or a complex spicy blend including cinnamon, cloves and other ingredients.

I took the spicier route and made my own chai with an Assam base (Whittard�??s blend) and adding cardamom, pepper, cinnamon, cloves and a touch of allspice. My idea was to compare it with Whittard�??s ready made chai, which has the same ingredients minus the allspice, plus some unspecified flavoring.

I brewed it slightly stronger than recommended, using two teaspoons per pot and steeping them for four minutes. It produced a dark amber liquor with a sweet spicy scent. It was pepperish at first, tickling the tongue ever so slightly. Other spices�??cardamom?�??emerged as the sip traveled through my mouth. The tea is there but definitely plays second fiddle to the spices.

My chai, by contrast, was murkier and darker, with a pronounced cinnamon nose, but an altogether more delicate scent than the Whittard version. Exotic as a Gauguin in the Tahiti period, it had more spiciness at first impact but was altogether less aggressive throughout. The finish was very much malty tea and pepper. I liked it better than the Whittard version, chiefly because it had a stronger tea taste. But I don’t think it would have borne milk as well as the other one.